


A Feast of Flesh

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Dark Will Graham, Dubious Consent, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Exhibitionism, F/M, Foreign Language, Gladiators, M/M, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Oral Sex, Sex Magic, Slave Trade, Slavery, Will Graham is a Cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 00:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18297155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: In an alternative timeline to "The Devourer of Man", Mason Verger's parties are renowned for their spectacular shows. Will and Alana are chosen to perform after Will brings the rains.





	A Feast of Flesh

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Devourer of Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14624400) by [HigherMagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic). 



> So you know how in Devourer I asked people if they'd be alright with a Will/Alana Spartacus-style sex scene? I ended up not going with it for a multitude of reasons, but let's be honest, I love writing Will eating Alana out, and I have had this scene in my head since the other fic started, and I wanted to write it (and I won't lie, the second season scene with Gatticus and Onameus' wife was the INSPIRATION FOR THE ENTIRE FIC ORIGINALLY SO LIKE).
> 
> For those who have seen Spartacus, you know exactly what this is going to mean. The dubcon is because really you can't consent if you're a slave and told to fuck for your master's amusement, and in this timeline Will and Hannibal are very much together and honestly it could slot into the story pretty easily.
> 
> This takes place after Will's first arena fight, after the rains come.

Will watches Hannibal go, his nostrils flaring as Alana approaches him, a bucket of water and a cloth in her hands. As well, a bottle of oil, smelling waxy and thin as she sets them all down on one of the abandoned medical tables.

"What is that?" he asks her, glad at least that they can talk in his native tongue, and he doesn't have to try and figure out what she is saying.

She sighs. "Romans like their dogs to look pretty for their guests," she tells him, and nods to his clothes. He rolls his eyes, but strips down so he is bare before her, not shy about exposing himself. She presses her lips together, cheeks coloring. She is a vibrant, beautiful soul, shining with life and energy, and Will smells blood and perfume on her as she approaches with the bucket of water and the cloth, and begins to wipe him down.

He lifts his chin, scenting the air. "Are you bleeding?" he asks her.

"Women bleed," she replies with an arched brow. He huffs, acknowledging that, letting his eyes close as she cleans the dirt, sweat, and lingering blood from his neck. He cups his hand in her bucket of water and lifts it to his lips, drinking it down and feeling the soft trickle as it coats his throat and tongue. Water is the giver of life, and settles his hunger somewhat, though he is full and strong with Hannibal's recent offering and his kill in the arena.

He burns with hunger, still, wishing he had had time to drink more of Hannibal's life. His kiss, his touch, makes Will feel as though he is a trembling blade of grass, petted and caressed by wind and sunlight. How alive Hannibal is here, amidst all the death and ruin.

"What did he say to you, before he left?" Will asks, as the water trickles down his shoulders and chest, only to be wiped away as she cleans him. He wants to help her, or even do it himself, but she seems perfectly content to do it, so he stands still and allows her. "I recognized most of the words."

Alana sighs, and shakes her head. "He wanted me to explain to you how these parties normally go," she replies, and kneels down to wash his legs and feet. "Romans like to take their slaves and warriors and make them…do things to each other."

Will frowns. "Things?"

"Sexual things," Alana says, and stands. "It's not uncommon to have a prize gladiator mount a slave girl for their amusement. Or, for select guests, to be given the same pleasure."

Will's frown deepens, and he stifles a snarl. "Have you been mounted for their _amusement_?" he spits.

Alana grins at him. "No," she replies with a laugh and a pat to his shoulder, likely amused by his outrage. Of course, being friends with Hannibal, she is probably not afraid of men like him, like Will. She is not afraid of killers. "I'm a personal servant to our domina, which means I am not for the whims of guests." She pauses, and sighs.

"Romans are savages," Will mutters, as she resumes cleaning him.

She nods. "I know."

Will's upper lip curls, but he says nothing more.

"I want you to be aware, Will, it is very likely you will be chosen for such a display, if one is to occur," she tells him. Will's eyes widen, and he blinks at her. "You're the bringer of rains," she says gently. "Your status is unequaled; the finest jewel in our dominus' vault."

Will shakes his head vehemently. "I am for no one but Hannibal," he says. She pauses, and stares at him. "He is my bonded; my mate. I will not touch another soul as long as we live."

"You might not have a choice," she murmurs. "If you refuse, Mason may harm you. Or him. Or all of us."

Will snarls, but makes no other movement or sound, as she finishes cleaning his back and drops the cloth into the bucket of water, setting it down. She takes the oil, uncorks it, and pours thin drizzles along his back and shoulders, wiping it over his chest until it appears as a fine sheen.

Will's nose wrinkles. "This smells awful," he complains.

Alana rolls her eyes. "Stop being such a child," she replies with another playful smack to his chest. "Honestly, you men, always complaining about something. What a terrible fate it might be, to lay with a slave girl tonight."

Will eyes her, narrowed and considering. He doesn't want to comment, but; "Would you enjoy that?" he whispers. "Being forced to lay with a man you didn't know, or love, while Romans drank and watched and laughed over how fiercely he fucked you?"

She sighs. "Sometimes it's not about what we want, Will," she replies, and finishes with her work, stoppering the oil bottle and rinsing her hands. "But there are worse ways to spend a night. If you are chosen, I know you will be gentle."

"You don't know that," Will replies with a small smile. "I could be a brute. Or a monster."

She huffs.

"Alana, what you have told me troubles me greatly. I don't want to do anything like that, with anyone but Hannibal. Hannibal is willing; he is mine, and I am his. Slaves are not willing."

"Well, then let us pray to Juno and Venus and all the gods that exist that Mason doesn't intend for you to do such a thing tonight," she replies with a kind, sad smile. "Perhaps he will have you fight again, or simply stand there and look pretty."

Will rolls his eyes. "If he wishes to view beauty, he need only look at you."

She blinks at him, and blushes, and hits him again. "Such a silver tongue!" she laughs, and considers him for a moment, her hands on her hips. "Well, I believe you are ready. Here." She bends down and picks up the strip of cloth he was given when he was enslaved, handing it to him with her eyes carefully averted. "You'll wear only this. I have to go prepare the other gladiators Mason requested."

"Good luck," he says.

She smiles. "I don't fear the dogs," she says with another laugh, and Will huffs. He follows her out, bucket of water, cloth, and oil in her hands, and goes to sit by the cliffs, to wait until he is summoned.

 

 

The air smells of roasting meat, sweet, fresh fruits, and, of course, rain. Will winces, greeted with a cacophony of light and sound, glimmering candlelight, golden plates the likes of which he has never seen before. Romans, florally-scented and drenched in silks and linens, laughing and drinking their too-sweet wine. It makes Will ache for his father's ale, finding their drink too sweet and heavy here.

He spies Hannibal, dressed in his normal armor, though it appears in much better shape than what he wears to spar with, and Will smiles, eagerly following behind Randall as they are led over, and he finds himself standing next to his mate. As always, Hannibal thrums with life, reminds Will is fresh venison and long, flowing mountain rivers, grasses so sweet and richly green.

Hannibal smiles at him, his eyes glimmering like rich earth in the candlelight, brown and golden and with a hint of red – blood, dirt, flesh, everything Will might love about this place. If he could, if they were alone, he would press himself to his mate, drink eagerly from his mouth, dance with him in the rain. He would touch him, feel the strength in his shoulders, sink into his embrace. Would tremble and ache and pant for more, more; heat and sweat. By the gods, Hannibal makes him feel so _alive_.

Hannibal's eyes rake over him in turn, appreciative and dark, his smile growing soft even as his gaze sharpens. Will forces his muscles into stillness, and stands staring outward as Randall shifts and snarls at his side.

"Is this what we are?" Randall asks, in his language, low. "We are no better than statues."

Will laughs, and smiles at him. "Statues are not worshipped as much as we are," he replies.

Francis huffs a breath, beside them both. "Be careful how you speak," he says, in the Roman language, guttural and low. "Our masters do not look kindly on the dogs growling to each other in a language they do not know."

Will wants to grin at him, but admits it is true, so he remains silent. Around them, on all sides, are the things Alana said – slaves, dressed in golden masks to gods he doesn't recognize, grinding and moaning together for the amusement of the guests. His nostrils flare, smelling life, arousal, though it's thin and fake to his mind. Nothing, nothing at all, like how Hannibal feels against his skin.

He turns his head towards Hannibal, and murmurs; "I was told what to expect." And with it comes another low snarl, a darkness he sees mirrored in Hannibal's face.

He presses his lips together, and nods. "I advised Mason not to let any Roman proposition for some time with you," he says. Will tilts his head, lifts his eyes, and lets out a curious sound – he does not know the word 'proposition', but can guess what Hannibal means. "I cannot say for sure he will not demand you mount a slave girl, though, for the sake of entertainment."

Will lets out a low, angry sound, and turns his gaze away. In front of them is another pair of slaves, two women, touching each other with soft grazes, both moaning, loud and long, and he sighs, rolling his shoulders.

"This is barbaric," Will whispers. Hannibal smiles.

"It is the Roman way."

Will growls, and clenches his fingers at his side. "Fuck the Roman way," he murmurs, but he says it in his own language so that no one here will understand him, and feels Hannibal vibrate with amusement at his side. He spies Alana amidst the crowd, and she nods to him.

He nods back, noting how pale she appears beside her mistress. Margot is a lovely sight, resplendent in gold and purple, the colors making her eyes shine and highlighting the fox-pelt russet of her hair. She is the envy of all eyes tonight, he sees that. Can catch flickers and sparks of interest and arousal and wine-bold intent, sees men and women alike gazing upon her.

Stiffens, when he feels something cold enter the room. Something that pricks at him like frost on grass. It is Mason, Will would know his scent anywhere, and he growls as they are approached by Mason, Margot, Alana, and the two Will has seen watching them while he and Hannibal spar. The woman with golden hair and the man who throws his own men at Will's teeth.

Mason crows, and claps Hannibal on the shoulder. They speak, too quickly in the Roman tongue for Will to understand, but as they converse, Will feels Hannibal grow stiff and tense with anger. Sees Alana's and Margot's eyes widen. Beside them, that golden-haired woman and the man who smells of weak, barren fields is smiling.

Mason turns away, and Hannibal stifles a snarl.

"What is happening?" Will asks, as the two slave girls in front of them are made to clear away, and in their place is a single raised bed, heavy with sheets and pillows, and around the place, Romans are gathering in various stages of drunken interest.

Hannibal swallows, and lifts his chin. "It seems several of Mason's guests have asked you to put on a show for them," he says.

Will frowns, but catches Alana's eye – she has not moved, and Margot lingers also.

"A show," he repeats.

Alana nods. "Like what we talked about," she tells him, in their shared language.

Will stiffens, and manages not to shake his head. "I will not," he hisses.

"Will, you must," Alana whispers, and touches his arm.

Mason lets out another loud, delighted sound. "Oh, a volunteer!" he says, and Alana winces, and they all look to him. "A fine night this is – Margot's favorite, our champion's for the taking! Correct me if I'm wrong, sweet sister – she has never lain with a man, isn't that right?"

Margot's smile is small and thin, her voice tight with strain when she says; "You are not wrong, my dear brother."

"A fine reward indeed for the bringer of rains!"

Margot laughs, the sound so tight it is a wonder she doesn't choke. "Forgive me, my sweet brother, but we must choose another. Alana is having her blood."

"What's some blood to a dog such as that?" Mason replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. His attention is caught by the tall, barren man, at his side, and Will shakes his head again more vehemently, his eyes on Alana.

"Alana, I will not," he says.

She sighs, and says in the Roman tongue; "You must." She looks at Hannibal, as does Will, finds his expression thunderous, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Will shakes his head again, and brushes his fingers along Hannibal's wrist. "I will not," he says again, and Hannibal looks at him, and Will can already see the resignation on his face. It coats him like tar, deadening his scent, his vibrancy. Will aches to see it – oh, no, let him touch Hannibal instead. Let Hannibal mount him for their amusement, he doesn't care if they see that. Will's loyalty and devotion is a sharp thing; he will not break it for any man.

Hannibal sighs, through his nose, his eyes on Alana, and then going back to Will. "It's alright, Will," he murmurs. "We must do as our dominus commands us."

"Perhaps _you_ must," Will snarls. "Did you not tell me you would kill me if I touched another? I would not do it, even if that weren't the case."

Alana swallows, trembling and pale with anxiety.

Hannibal presses his lips together, and shakes his head. "I will not see either of you harmed for the sake of my pride," he says, and he says it sternly, leaving no room for argument. Will swallows, his hands clenching into fists. He has no weapons, he cannot fight and devour all of the Romans here, he could not win this fight.

Hannibal touches, lightly, at his back, his palm burning into Will more fiercely than a brand. "Treat her gently, Will," he says. "And know that I will still have you, when it's done."

Will shivers.

"You will always be mine."

Will swallows, his throat tight, clogged with emotion. Alana is gripping his other arm tightly, and tugs, and he looks at her. "I'm willing," she whispers, and Will is sure that's not true – if what Mason claims is the truth, and she has never been with a man, Will's violation will be all the more terrible, if he does this.

Then, in their shared language, she says; "Perhaps we can both pretend we are with the one we love."

Will breathes out heavily, and lets Hannibal push him, lets her guide him towards the bed. The ring of Romans closes in behind them, and he cannot feel Hannibal on his skin anymore. Wants to look at him. Wants desperately to look anywhere else.

"If it were in my power," Will tells her, in their language because fuck the Romans, he doesn't want them to hear; "I would kill them all if it saved you from this."

She smiles at him, her eyes dark, but the smile itself is genuine enough. "This is not something to be saved from," she replies. "But I am willing. I know you, and you are my friend. If I were to be with any man, I am glad it's you."

Will huffs, but smiles, and cups her neck. He does not kiss her mouth – that is an intimate act for a creature like him, bonds and binds two pieces of flesh together as they become one. He will not do it with anyone except Hannibal. So he kisses her pale, arching neck, wets her with his saliva, pushes his venom to her pulse so that it will soak into her blood, relax and arouse her so that this is pleasant.

He cannot conjure in her feelings she does not have; emotions are not in his power to manipulate. But he can quicken her heart, soak her between her legs. He can learn which parts of her light up under his touch, and watch when she shivers and sighs. Know when he does something she doesn't like. It skirts along her skin like thunder, warms him like rain, as he presses her down onto the edge of the bed.

She wraps her arms around him, her legs spreading, and he can smell her blood, smell the bright spark of her fertility. She will not get pregnant at this time of the month, for which he is glad – if he were to ever conceive a child, it would not be like this.

He pulls at the straps of her dress, baring her shoulders and her breasts as the fabric falls around her waist. He ignores the Romans, closes off their chitter and laughter from his mind, and wraps a hand in her hair, petting it from her neck so he can ease more venom into her skin. She shivers, biting her lower lip, and tenses when one Roman says something particularly loudly.

"Ignore them," he tells her, keeping to their language; he will not speak Latin until this is done, and he is with Hannibal again. "Focus on me. On the person you love."

She nods, and he pulls back so he can rest their foreheads together, petting down her shoulders. He can feel her, smell her, sinking into his skull in turn, tugging at that starving place inside him that wishes to feast, and devour, soak in the life and warmth of all living things. He cups her breasts, drags a callused thumb over her nipple, pleased when it hardens at his touch.

One of her dainty hands threads through his hair, tightens and tugs as he kisses over her pulse again, finds it racing and warm. He parts his lips, licks over her neck, feeds her as much of his power as he can and wishes he also had the power to shut off the candlelight, the eyes on them.

He pulls back with a growl, and drops to his knees in front of her, pushing up the skirt of her dress until it bunches around her hips. Blood and life makes him want to give it in turn, and the quickest way to do this is to make her tremble with pleasure.

There is a knot of cloth between her legs, held in place by thin strings of lambskin, which he tugs at, his nostrils flaring as he scents her blood, sees it coated and staining the fabric. He pulls it down her legs, to the floor, hiding it amidst the sheets, and looks up at her.

"I know it's a lie," he says, "but tell me you're willing."

"I am," she replies, just as softly, and tightens her hand in his hair. Even like this, he can see how dark her eyes are, the flush starting on her cheeks and spreading down her neck as his influence takes hold.

He smiles, and wraps his fingers around her thighs, holding her still, and presses his mouth between her legs. She is soaked with blood – and it's dead blood, has no life in it, does not sate his hunger – but the taste in itself is not unpleasant. He's eaten far worse. He licks at her, tongue broad and heavy, as her thighs tremble and she releases a soft, needy moan.

Good; he wants her to enjoy this, as much as she can.

He pushes his nose between the slick flesh, licks deep until he finds her entrance, curling his tongue and swallowing her blood, his saliva. It smears along his cheeks and jaw, and he's sure he will look as some otherworldly, bestial thing by the end, as fierce and demonic as the Romans believe he is.

Outside, thunder rumbles, and it sounds like Hannibal's snarl.

Alana moans, falling back onto the bed, her heels lifting to brace on the edge of it and her hips rising to his mouth. Like this, Will can feed her more of his power, make her muscles shiver and tighten, tastes as she grows wet, feels her spasm and clench under his hand when one flattens, low, on her belly. He snarls, alight despite himself at the taste of her blood, the undeniable proof that she is fertile, she is _alive_ , and strong despite her small frame. She is fierce, she is monumental, and Will stays on his knees and gives himself over to this kind of worship.

He pushes his tongue into her, curls it up, and brushes his thumb between her legs, to where there is a sensitive piece of flesh that is warm and hard under his touch. She jerks, gasping, her hand tight in his hair and tugging in encouragement.

This place lights her up when touched, makes her moan and shake as he licks into her, drags his tongue through her flesh and edges his teeth below the hard bundle of nerves. Touches the tip of it with his thumb, presses so it's trapped, and sucks it into his mouth.

The sounds she is making are nothing short of rapturous, soft sighs and sweet moans – whether it's for the sake of the show, or for him, or genuine, Will doesn't know, but he brushes it all aside. He is a creature of hunger and conquest, and right now his sole purpose is to make her feel good – and he can do it. He pushes the fingers of his free hand below his chin, against her entrance, feels muscles shiver and clamp when he eases one inside her.

He uses his finger to coax her looser, smiling and letting out a pleased sound, letting more venom drip so he can push it into her, helping her relax and let him in. It is an intrusive thing, to penetrate, to split flesh with steel or teeth or hands – more intimate, still, with his tongue and his fingers and, he's sure, the Romans will demand his cock finish the job soon.

He eases another finger into her, licks the blood from his mouth and sucks on where she's swollen and sensitive, tongue curling like he might around Hannibal's cock, pleased when she twitches and moans. His fingers curl up, find a piece of her that is rougher and does not spasm when he touches it, but the rest of her does. It is like when Hannibal does this to him – a sacred, secret space inside a mortal that makes them weak, makes them holy.

He strokes along it, sucking on her clit, and sighs as her entire body spasms, sheened with sweat, and she arches from the bed with a sharp cry, back bowed, eyes clenched shut and lips parted around the sound. Both her hands slide into his hair, tugging fiercely, begging him to keep going, and he obeys with another low noise, because if he is sure of anything, it's that she is wondrous in the throes of pleasure. Will has seen his tribesmen mate beneath the stars, seen women and boys in no dress at all, taken by sailors on shore leave. Seen mountains and valleys so lovely he could weep, and yet this feeling, the sweet slip of her soft thighs on his shoulders, the way her body tightens and shivers around his fingers as she gushes fresh onto his tongue – well, the only rival Will could name to her would be Hannibal.

She is beautiful, resplendent, and makes Will think of cool oceans and deep rivers, as he drinks from her and touches her, easing her through her pleasure. Lets his power linger, his saliva making her tender and sensitive, so that she is pushed through wave after gentle wave, until her fingers grow lax and she collapses on the bed with a heavy, sated sigh.

Will pulls back, and gently kisses her thigh. Smiles at her, when she sits up, breathing hard and staring down at him like she's only just beginning to understand the kind of magic he wields. He pulls his fingers out gently, sucks them clean, and swipes his thumb through the blood on his cheek, as it starts to dry and itch on his jaw.

"She likes his tongue," one Roman says. Will cares not who it is.

"Let's see how she likes his cock!"

That's Mason. Will growls, lips curling back, and Alana touches him, gently, wraps her fingers in his hair and tugs on him to get his attention.

"Ignore them," she murmurs, repeating his words back to him. "Focus on me. On the person you love."

Will swallows, his eyes closing in a single, slow blink, and turns his head, seeking Hannibal amongst the crowd. He finds Hannibal standing just where he was left, his arms folded across his strong, broad chest, muscles bulging and tense. Will can feel his anger like a simmering heat – but he is not angry with Will. No, the look in his eyes is almost proud – warm, and affectionate, pleased that Will is being so kind and good with their friend. The outrage is for the situation, but not for what Will is having to do within it.

Still, he tries to smile, and is relieved when Hannibal lifts his chin, and returns it with a small one of his own.

He flinches, as suddenly a knot of sheets brushes over his face. Alana has it, and she's wiping his mouth clean, grinning at him when he meets her eyes.

"Our audience grows impatient," she murmurs in their mother tongue. "I don't know what you're doing, if you're really that good with your mouth or if you're bewitching me, somehow, but I am not afraid."

She spreads her knees, and Will rises. Doesn't look anywhere but her face as she tugs at the strips of cloth around his hips, pushing them down to his knees until the pull of the earth takes over, and he can step out of them. She shimmies out of her dress as well, letting it join by the pad of bloodied cloth and Will's underwear, and lies back like any eager wife ready to receive her husband.

She is beautiful. Truly, Will has never seen a woman who is her equal. Her eyes are like his – the lakes and sparkling water of their homeland, the flush on her cheeks reminds Will of dancing around campfires, of the heave of a horse beneath him, the warm trickle of first blood when it's drawn from a deer.

She tugs on his hips, pulling him between her legs, and sighs, low-lidded and shivering when he pets through her hair. He leans down, guides her to mold and arch against him, her hips lifting to rut against his own, her thighs pressed to his hipbones, bent, heels on the table. Her breasts press flat to his chest, all of her firm and smooth as silk, and he shivers, closes his eyes.

Lets her desire, the arousal he gave to her, return to him in kind. Takes just a little of her life as he noses at her neck and licks his teeth clean of her blood. Her sweat stings his tongue when he kisses her shoulder, he laps at it and lets it fill him, lets it warm him.

"You are beautiful," he tells her, whispers it raggedly into her ear in their shared language. A language he wishes Hannibal understood, so Will could do the same to him. She moans, drags her nails up his back and tugs on his shoulders, and he lets out a soft sound; the act of drawing blood is an intimate thing, especially for creatures like him.

"I don't want you to feel any pain," he says, because he knows the stories of women when they first lay with a man. He doesn't want to hurt her, he never wants to hurt her, but he might. "Tell me if I do. Please."

She nods, not scolding him, not correcting him. Will rears back, and catches Mason in his periphery. The man is leering openly, that golden-haired woman at his side with her eyes wide and sharp on Will, raking over him in clear desire. The air reeks of sex, of that fucking Roman perfume, he hates it, and is glad Alana doesn't wear it.

"I'm willing," Alana whispers, and Will isn't sure, now, if that's entirely false. The way she's looking at him seems genuine enough. He swallows, closes his eyes, and will not do her the disservice of pretending it's someone else in his bed.

He opens his eyes again, and prowls over her. Fits their foreheads together as is tradition for their people, flattens his hands on her thighs to hold her still, and rolls his hips, his cockhead finding her slick, open entrance, and pushing in.

She gasps, her eyes wide, staring at him unblinkingly. She is soaking wet and _hot_ on the inside, muscles gripping him tightly as he forces himself into her. He growls, brushes their noses together as her fingernails dig into his jutting shoulder blades, and he doesn't hesitate – thrusts in, all the way, and feels the sharp _give_.

Light and warmth flood him. He can feel her life, her energy, pouring from her and into him as though she were a burst dam, his own body a barren field aching for water and rain. He shudders, trembling above her, soaked in sweat. It feels good, there's no denying that, and he suddenly tightens his hands on her and shows his teeth.

"Open your mouth," he whispers, and she does, shivering as he grips her neck – gentle, but his hand is large and threatening on her delicate flesh – and lets the saliva flooding his mouth drip into hers. Does not kiss, but his venom is there, and he sees the moment it lands on her tongue, sees her eyes flash and darken and flood with black.

She aches, like all of Rome aches for water, and the thunder is growing deafening above them, rain pelting the roof and the ground outside, as Will starts to move. He is as gentle as he can be, and relaxes when she starts to move with him, lifting her hips into his thrusts, encouraging him to press deeper, harder against her. Her eyes close and she throws her head back, a picture of ecstasy as Will kisses her neck, soaks his power through her blood-warm skin. Aches, and aches for her, wants her to fly to the mountaintops and drop over the edge of them, wants her to soar with it.

Her body tightens around him, spasming in pleasure as she starts to bear down, and shrieks into the air, clutching and clawing at him as he draws another orgasm from her. He smiles, pets up her flanks, to curl under her shoulders, and climbs up onto the bed so he can press his knees on the edge, cup her lower back and lift her so his cockhead drags along that sensitive spot. She whimpers and clenches again, wrapping her legs around him tight enough to suffocate, as he grips her – she is such a slim, delicate thing, easy to hold and keep still.

She moans again, can't open her eyes, her hair a halo of darkness around her flushed face. Clings, and clenches, and comes again, and Will knows he has perhaps given her too much, but he would rather blind and deafen her to all else if it means she enjoys this as much as possible, given the situation.

He wraps his arm beneath her, holds her steady as he fucks her, and cups her skull, knots his fingers in her hair and growls into her ear. Goose bumps break out down her neck and arms, the redness on her cheeks spread to her chest now, her thighs trembling and weak, ankles locking so they don't fall. She is limp as a doll in his arms, now, a quivering creature of arousal and satisfaction, shivering like a hibernating field mouse come winter.

"I would not wish this upon anyone," he tells her, as she spasms and moans and turns her head, nuzzling weakly at his neck. "But I am glad it was you."

Alana's eyes open, and she stares up at him, and Will isn't even sure she sees him as a man anymore. She cups his face and kisses his jaw, gives another weak, desperate noise as he fucks her, hard enough that the bed creaks beneath them, and her hands fall, pulling at the silks and sheets.

"I'm glad, too," she says. "And I know Hannibal is proud of you."

Will shivers, burying his face in her hair as he stills, planted deep inside of her. She is so warm, so vibrantly alive and alight with it, Will is taking too much – he cannot possibly contain it all. He must release, somehow, with blood. With sex.

He trembles when she pets up his back, sighs, and kisses his neck. "It's alright, Will," she murmurs, as Will snarls and lets go of her hair, fisting the sheets and tugging hard enough that they rip. She lifts her hips, almost in askance, and the pulse of her around him feels like hunger. Will is stuffed full, overfed, and he has to give some of it back.

He brings a knot of sheets to his teeth and bites down, tearing at it as he clutches at her with his free arm, tight around her back, and goes still, releasing into her with a loud, trembling snarl. He floods her, feels her body shiver around him, for all that his body can give contains his power, and he lets the sheet go, cups her face and watches pleasure overtake her for the final time. It will linger, spread to every piece of her. He watches her expression melt into one of pure satisfaction, feels her hands and thighs go limp around him, and settles her down carefully, nuzzling her neck with another soft sigh.

He pulls out, and grimaces at the fresh flood of come and blood that leaks out of her. His cock is red, pubic hair and hips stained with it – her thighs, too, from mounting her so completely her body could not contain all of it.

There is silence, for a time, or perhaps Will simply cannot hear over the roar of blood in his ears. But it fades, replaced with rain and appreciative murmurs from the crowd, and Will swallows, lifts his chin, and glares at Mason where he's sitting and grinning near Alana's head.

Beside him, the woman with the golden hair is gazing at Alana with raised brows, and she takes her wine. "He seems to fuck even better than he fights," she says, the Roman tongue taking a moment to translate in Will's head.

Mason grins at her. "A true prize, all round," he crows. "Hannibal!"

The crowd parts, and Will tenses, looking over at Hannibal with lowered eyes as the man appears from between the crowd.

"See to it they're cleaned up," Mason says with a dismissive wave. "Time to put the dogs to bed."

Hannibal nods, his expression unreadable, and he helps Alana to sit upright, smiles kindly at her, and hands her back her dress and the cloth she was wearing to stop her bleeding everywhere. She takes it, blushing with shame as she reaffixes it, and then Hannibal helps her into her dress.

The crowd disperses, seeking other entertainment now. There is blood on the sheets.

"Hannibal." That is domina, and Will steps back, pulling his clothes back on as she emerges and sets a hand on Alana's shoulder. She looks distraught, as angry as Hannibal, though more openly so, and she sighs as Alana practically sags against her, in no condition to stand. Will is not proud of that – he gave her too much of his venom.

"Domina," he murmurs, though he knows it's not his place. "Please, I beg you. Let her rest, and give her water."

Margot looks at him, and Will remembers his promise to her, to find her a man. He has failed at that, and hopes she will forgive him for disobeying her. For violating her servant and her friend. Her lips thin out when Alana sighs, and tries to straighten, to stand under her own strength.

"Come, Alana," Margot says. Alana nods, looking drunk and dazed, and the two women disappear down one of the hallways, leaving Will and Hannibal comparatively alone.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs, and Will looks at him, shoulders hunched, and feels a similar shame Alana must have. Still, Hannibal regards him no differently, as he turns and exits the villa and leads the way down to the training grounds. "I am not angry with you," he adds, when there is finally true silence surrounding them. "I want you to understand that."

"But you are not pleased with me, either," Will murmurs.

Hannibal regards him, and sighs through his nose, unlocking the gate and letting them out onto the sands. He locks the gate behind them, and Will goes to the cliffs, not cold even when the rain lands on his bare skin. He must give his thanks to the gods for the gift of rain – perhaps a song, or to simply sit with them while they dance and play with each other along the water.

Hannibal follows him, and they both sit on the edge of the cliffs. Will wipes at his face, sucks on his teeth, wanting to remove Alana from them, for if his mate wishes to have him, he will not do it with a woman's taste on Will's tongue. Will still feels fit to burst, swollen with life and energy. He wants to tear open his skin, shed his blood to the sea, knowing it will sate the creatures that live within it and upon it.

He doesn't, because he doesn't think Hannibal would understand. He might further resent the idea that Alana was just as capable of feeding Will's hunger as Hannibal is.

They sit in silence, and Will brings a heel to the cliff edge, resting his chin upon his knee, his arms around his ankle. Hannibal sits close to him, their thighs touching. Will sighs.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Hannibal huffs – a short, angry noise. "It's not your fault the Romans are like dogs."

Will's nose wrinkles. "They call us dogs."

"And yet who would you say is more human?"

Will laughs, brightening with joy that it seems his mate is in a good enough humor to make jokes. He turns his head, rests his cheek to his knee, admiring Hannibal, stern and regal in the moonlight. He is beautiful, more beautiful, Will thinks, than anything else he has ever seen.

"They call me a monster," Will says quietly, and Hannibal looks at him, his eyes dark and shining like precious metal buried in a mountain. "What I did…that felt monstrous, to me. Violation. On both sides."

Hannibal sighs, like he understands.

"Did you ever have to do something like that?"

He nods, pressing his lips together, and looks out to the ocean again. "Not for a long time, but yes," he admits. His fingers flex, and settle on his thighs. "Some part of me is glad I still find it so terrible. It means I am, still, not quite like them."

"You're not like them at all," Will says harshly. He reaches out, wraps his fingers around Hannibal's hand, and squeezes when Hannibal looks at him. "You are not, Hannibal, and neither am I. Neither is Alana."

Hannibal sighs, and meets Will's gaze. "I'm glad you were gentle with her," he says, voice so soft Will cannot read it for inflection or emotion. "She is a dear friend to me. I…do not think I could have borne the sight of you with anyone else."

Will presses his lips together, and looks down at their entwined hands. "She loves another," he tells Hannibal. "It was easy, for both of us, to pretend."

Hannibal is quiet for a moment, then whispers; "Did you enchant her?"

Will frowns. "What is that word? 'Enchant'?"

"Did you make her feel things, or work some magic over her, to make it easier?"

"Oh." Will nods, and gives a small smile. "Yes. Pleasure, life, is easy to give and receive. I cannot make her see things, cannot make her believe in things that are not real, but yes. I 'enchanted' her."

Hannibal nods, and Will sighs again. "I want you to stay with me, tonight," he murmurs, "but I understand if you can't. For whatever reason."

Hannibal's eyes lift, black and near-unreadable. But the way he looks at Will has not changed; his affection, his desire, is plain on his face, and he breathes out heavily, lifts their entwined fingers and brushes his knuckles along Will's pink-stained cheek.

"I would like to stay," he says, and though Will is braced for rejection, for an excuse, none comes. He smiles, and closes his eyes, tilting his head up so that the rain can touch him, cover his cheeks and coat his hair to his face, wash off Roman oil and sweat and sex, the touch of a woman who is not his mate, drain his lingering power and give it to the sea.

"That makes me happy," he replies, and leans over, resting his cheek on Hannibal's strong shoulder. He sighs when Hannibal releases his hand, and wraps his arm around Will's shoulders instead, holding him close. Though he is cool to the touch, shivering in the rain, Will is warm, and sends threads of his power into the places where their skin touches, wanting to soothe his mate's aches and chills.

Soon, Hannibal settles against him, and his lips touch Will's wet hair. Will smiles, closes his eyes, and begins to hum a song. One small lullaby for his friends in the ocean, before he takes his mate to their bed.


End file.
